Confessional
by g33kg1rl
Summary: "He rode into town on a Thursday..." This is Wild West Turtles. What if a lone rider wanders into town, looking for some bandits he's been tracking, and along the way, he runs into a kindred spirit. The only problem, he's the town priest. RaphXDon, turtlecest, gunfights, religious views, emotional turmoil, blood, hard living, tragedy and death, and Turtles in the wild west.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the turtles~

_Warnings:_ this is Turtles in the Wild West. There will be religious views, there will be prejudice, there will be emotional conflicts, there will be blood, and gunfights, there will be a lot of stuff in this piece. There will be Turtlecest where that will include sexual relations between the turtles. It's heavy RaphXDon. There might be a lot of triggery things that could happen in this story, so I'm warning you now. Otherwise - I hope you enjoy because I've actually had a lot of fun writing this story.

* * *

_Confessional_

Chapter 1

Thursday

He rode into town on Thursday; all quiet and dark with eyes blistering like the noonday hour and just as golden. The sun dipped toward the edge of the mountains, casting a lengthy shadow of grasping fingers across the dry landscape, and Donatello stood still, watching him ride by. A stranger in these parts wasn't rare, but his kind was. With a six shooter at his hip, a rifle in the saddle, and a fair sized scar across the side of his beak, proving he had earned his place in this God forsaken west, he was a desperado if he ever did see one.

Tipping his head back and reining his horse to a stop, he man glared at Donatello. The stranger raised a brow and flicked his gaze across Donatello's body, pausing momentarily on the white collar at his throat. He smirked, a glimmer bringing his golden eyes to life.

Donatello schooled his features, unwilling to allow this turtle to fluster his nerves from one smoldering look alone.

"Padre." The stranger husked, deep and gravely that sent a shiver up his spine. He nodded to Donatello, nudging his horse forward and the beast snorted in protest, slapping his tail against his flank and shuffled through the raw earth, kicking up little puffs of dust that scattered with the wind.

Donatello nodded back respectfully, but he gave no smile and instead folded his arms over his chest and watched the turtle rein his horse in at the local saloon and march inside on bowed legs.

Darkness hovered about the stranger as heavily as a shroud covered the dead. His arrival was only the prelude to something greater – for ill or good. Donatello knew deep down in his gut it was the former. Nothing good was going to come with this stranger's arrival.

"Father!" Sheriff Casey Jones waved to him before he jogged to his side, his dark hair tied back neatly under his hat, a hand resting upon his gun's grip. "Father," Casey grinned lopsided and turned, jerking his chin toward the saloon. "So what's yer take on that?"

Flashing his friend a smile, Donatello shrugged and draped his hands over his hips. "I'm thinking his horse needs a shoe." Casey rolled his eyes and Donatello held in a laugh by simply smiling at the man.

"You always say that."

"Maybe I'll be right today."

The glare Casey gave him spoke loud and clear at his annoyance. Don was usually right. "Anyway," With a huff and his finger tapping on his gun, Casey eyed him back, "so, this stranger,"

The priest sighed, shrugging his shoulders and looked back toward the saloon. "Perhaps he is an answer to my prayers." He grinned, "I do need help patching up the church."

A frown marred the sheriff's face as he shook his head. "I don't like the looks of him. Nothing but a fox in a henhouse if you ask me."

Donatello chuckled, bobbing his head in agreement. "That there is trouble if I ever did see some."

"How about one of the town Sheriffs and the local pastor go and welcome the new arrival and...explain we want no trouble." A heavy hand landed on Donatello's shoulder and he smiled at his old friend.

"I believe that would be a splendid idea." He patted Casey's arm.

Together, they crossed the dusty street, Casey waving down the folk staring worriedly toward the saloon. The last pounding rays of the sun, hot and imposing upon Donatello's back as though pushing him forward, promising with every step that if he walked in there, nothing would be the same for him again. The pair stepped inside, the squeaky hinges of the old saloon announcing their arrival and banging against one another as they swung back in place.

The dark wood of the saloon welcomed him, the room smoky and thick on the tongue. The tables lingered close together, cards shuffled hands, coins and laughter, drinks sloshing and the candles flickered from the ornate gold chandelier in the center of the building. The candles illuminated the second floor where red velvet curtains fluttered and hid the soiled doves gazing down from their perches, waiting for lonely clients to begin their night's work.

Mikey, glanced over his shoulder and grinned, blue eyes twinkling in delight as he waved a greeting and threw the bar towel over his shoulder all in the same motion. He leaned forward and slumped atop the bar counter, waiting for them to approach. Donatello adored Michelangelo, he had grown up with him and the barman was forever a roaring fountain of ideas and optimistic enthusiasm.

Donatello smiled and inclined his head to his childhood friend, and Mike winked back with a subtle tilt of his head, motioning toward the card table where the stranger sat with Angel on his lap. The girl, already fussing over the newcomer, whispered seductively in his ear. At least, Donatello assumed such by the way the stranger smirked at something she had said in particular and slapped her rump playfully in response. She giggled and leaned in again to whisper something to him, and Donatello supposed he should attempt a sermon in the near future concerning the Godliness of virtue.

"Well well," Michelangelo interrupted, drawing the priest's attention back to the bar. "You managed to drag old Donnie in here! That deserves a drink on the house if I do say so myself!" Mikey laughed and turned, grabbing for the sarsaparilla and poured Casey a shot.

The Sheriff laughed, a deep belly laugh that put the entire saloon at ease instantly and the humming chatter began once again. "You, Mikey, are a true stand up fellow!" and he took the drink leaning sideways upon the counter, turning to look at the stranger.

Donatello smiled and waved his hands in front of himself, declining a drink even as Mikey teased him, pressuring him to try at least one glass. It had become a game of sorts between them, but in the end, Donatello took his glass of warm water and perched himself upon one of the wobbly barstools and regarded the stranger at the poker table. He was tall for a turtle, and strong with a black hat looped by a red bandana around the center. The way his worn leather riding gear hugged him and the hints of extended comfort in his clothing said it all –just as the silver gun on his heavy belt stated clearly to all those near him- he was a tough son-uv-a-bitch and he knew how to work the saddle just as he did his six shooter. He roughed it out on the prairies working cattle just as easily as he worked the card table and the whiskey bottle to his right.

Casey glanced Donatello's way, raising a brow. Donatello simply smiled and shrugged his shoulder, taking a drink of his murky water and leaving the task of introductions up to the Sheriff. Grunting and rolling his eyes as though Casey truly thought him useless, he threw the rest of his drink in his mouth and swallowed hard.

"Perhaps a simple welcome would suffice?" Donatello tilted his head, looking past Casey and toward the stranger. He won his second hand and pulled the winnings toward himself, smirking at the attentions Angel gave him as she ran her fingers along his neck congratulatory.

"Don't rightly know what that means, but it should do well 'nough." Casey shrugged and smacked the glass down atop the bar and spun on his heel. "Seems we have a visitor!" he said and thumped his way through the smoky and too warm saloon to stand next to the stranger.

Angel's giggles simmered down till she finally whispered something to the stranger and slid off his lap, gathering her revealing skirts up all the higher and hurrying away. The turtle frowned heavily and tapped his cards on the table and tipped his head down, hiding his eyes from the Sheriff. Donatello could see the stranger from his vantage upon the stool and he stiffened as the stranger leaned forward, his elbows resting atop the table as he threw a half dollar into the pot. Bold; for a pair of six's and miscellaneous cards. "Yeah? What about it?" He peeked up at Casey from under his black hat, the red bandana brought out his eyes, creating the illusion of fire and coals licking at the stranger's soul.

Casey offered another smile and shifted back a step, his hand once again resting comfortably atop the handle of his gun. "'Nothin' about it, mister, just wanted ta know who the new fellow in town is. It's my job after all to know everybody in these here parts. Can't blame a Sheriff for being curious, now can ya?"

The stranger once again sat back and flicked his cards at the dealer; a clean and tidy barn owl with trimmed feathers; and Raphael announced he was out of this round while at the same time continuing to stare up at Casey with a raised brow and a strong set to his shoulders. "S'pose not." He gave a grunt and tipped his hat back finally, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. "Name's Raphael."

"Sheriff Casey Jones. You got a last name to go with that?" Casey asked, glancing toward Donatello with a little sway.

Raphael glared up at him, his eyes nothing but holy fire blazing within the dim lighting of the saloon as the setting sun flashed across his face. "You need one...Sheriff?"

Casey tipped his chin up, staring down his nose at Raphael, his nostrils flaring. Donatello took the thickening atmosphere as his cue to hop off the bar stool and join the two, He bowed his head to the stranger. "Sorry to interrupt," he offered Raphael a smile as he held out his hand. "I couldn't help but overhear that you are new in town. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. How long might you be staying?"

Raphael pulled his hat off suddenly, running a hand over his head and stared Donatello directly in the eye, a challenge glimmering there, and Donatello continued to smile. Yet annoyance punched Donatello in the gut and he refused to look away, daring Raphael to stand up and follow through with that challenge. He almost hoped he would, and Donatello refused to pull his hand away, because somehow, he had to win this moment that lay thick between them like his mama's beans and pork they had every year on the first day of summer.

A smirk spread across Raphael's face suddenly and he turned back to his game, setting his hat back atop his head and motioning for the dealer to deal him in as the jack rabbit across the table finished collecting his winnings. "Jus' passin' through Padre. Ain't plannin' on stayin' long."

"Then perhaps I'll see you for Sunday service before you set out once again." Donatello answered sharply and lifted his glass, taking a sip of the warm water that tasted like the well at the center of town.

Casey rapped his knuckles upon the table and nodded to Raphael, leaning a bit over Donatello's shoulder as he stared at him hard, "Pleasure ta meet you, mister, just would like ta ask ya to stay out of trouble now." He smiled then, a disarming grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. Raphael ignored him, placing another bet into the growing pot.

Angel walked by then, a bit slow and leisurely and she ran the tips of her fingers along Raphael's shoulders. Casey sighed and Angel immediately bristled and made a hiss in her throat, but that didn't stop Sheriff Jones from following behind her and cornering her as he talked to her, taking her by the elbow when she threatened to leave.

The stranger snorted, shaking his head and throwing another pair of dimes into the center. Donatello watched silently, hovering next to the man like the ghost of Christmas Past, lingering at his elbow and studying the tapping of his finger upon the edge of the cards. Raphael ignored him splendidly, placing his bets and pouring himself another shot of whiskey as he waited for the men around him to decide their strategy. Finally, the dealer called for their final bets and Raphael laid his cards out on the table. The dealer announced him the winner and he gathered the twenty five dollars in winnings. Donatello considered Raphael for a moment, watching the man stack the coins and bills before he took a seat as well at the table.

Raphael paused and stared at the priest as he was dealt in and offered a set of chips instead of money. The dealer cleared his throat, passing out the cards to the players. "The priest plays for free." He stared pointedly at Raphael.

"Fair enough." Raphael tapped his finger on the table, shifting in his seat and Donatello felt the man's eyes boring a hole through his skull.

Donatello smiled, gathering his cards up and shuffling them about between his fingers a few times, changing his mind several times as to how they should be arranged in his hand. "I suppose you aren't the type of man looking for work, are you?"

"Nope." Raphael considered his cards and tossed a few nickels into the pot.

He nodded and tilted his head, thinking for a moment over his cards before he laid a blue and red chip into the pot. "What brings you to Brookside town then? If not for work, I mean. There really isn't much else out here."

"Jus' passin' through, Padre. Ain't nothin' more complicated than that." Raphael's voice steeled over and he glanced toward Donatello, his shoulders stiff. "I ain't doin' one of them confessional things."

Donatello again tilted his head at his cards, his brows knitting together in confusion before he took a card out of his hand and slid it across the table to the dealer.

"Ah, no, Father, once you have made your bet, you cannot change cards until the next game." The dealer whispered; and the older jackrabbit with a hole in his ear smirked, shaking his head at the priest before he threw a few dollars into the pot. The mutt next to him doing the same with a scowl on his face.

"Oh, yes, I'm sorry." Donatello put the card back into his hand, peeking from the corner of his eye as Raphael watched him closely, and he tried hard not to smile.

He turned back to Raphael and the stranger jerked his eyes back to his cards, tipping his hat back up his brow. "Hmm?"

"Ain't said nothin', Padre."

"Awe, I suppose not. You haven't answered my question either."

Raphael sighed and laid his hand down to turn toward Donatello, annoyance written into every feature on his face; and despite the thick cloud that practically vibrated the darkness that lingered next to this stranger, Donatello couldn't help but find him very pleasing to gaze at. Very handsome for a wandering gunslinger.

"Are ya goin' ta pester me till I say somethin'?"

"More than likely, yes." Donatello offered another bet as the dealer made the final call. Raphael practically threw an entire five dollars into the pot after Donatello's simple ten cent bet.

"My horse has a loose shoe. That satisfy yer naggin' ass?" he glared and laid his cards out, staring directly at Donatello and waiting, his brow twitching.

The dealer cleared his throat, shooting Raphael a warning look for language around the priest. But Donatello ignored it and looked instead at Raphael's cards, his brows rising up in surprise.

"Two tens and three Jacks are very good. Correct, Victor?" The dealer nodded and Donatello sighed, looking at his cards again. The other two players had already thrown their hands down, though neither looked as though they had hoped to win anyhow. Donatello frowned and laid his hand out. "I only have hearts."

Raphael snorted and leaned back in his chair, eyes hard and narrowed upon Donatello as he spread out his hand. All of them were indeed hearts, a straight run from six to the Jack of hearts.

"Father wins." Dealer chuckled and pushed the winnings toward the priest.

Donatello blinked in surprise and then smiled and bowed his head, his cheeks warming, "Awe, God's Will I suppose. I was worried I would not be able to get the roof of the church patched up before winter." He stood then gathering up the money and smoothing the bills out in his hand till he folded them and placed them in his pocket. "Thank you gentlemen."

"Wait, ya can't just win a hand and walk out!" Raphael objected, glancing to the other men at the table. The jack rabbit shook his head, waving his hand dismissively and looking away, and the old dog with the drooping eyes shrugged.

"He never loses." the dog said and Donatello grinned sheepishly.

He lifted his glass and gave the men a salute. "Thank you again, gentlemen. And Mister Raphael, if you wish to get your horse's shoe shod, I suggest the blacksmith at the end of the road. Mr. Malone is possibly the best in the whole county." he took a moment to study Raphael and the stranger stared right back, tapping his finger once again upon the table that Donatello was beginning to understand as a tick he possessed when he was angry about something. "And do come to confession on Sunday. It does the soul little ill to do so."

"No offense, Padre, but stop ridin' my ass." Raphael grunted and finally turned away. Donatello chuckled and the dealer hissed at him again, but with a little wave, Donatello turned and walked away, rolling up the sleeves of his priest shirt. He glanced back at the stranger, watching him continuing to shake his head and he felt a twinge of pleasure rise up in his chest. It was satisfying somehow to have unsettled the turtle so much.

"You playin' nice there, Donnie?" Mikey asked, taking the empty glass of water from him. He waggled his brows at Donatello and the priest felt a blush color his cheeks.

"Perhaps not. But Sheriff Jones and I wanted to be certain that Raphael would not be causing any trouble.

Michelangelo nodded, raising a brow with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Uh-huh." He struck a match and lit an oil lamp, preparing for the evening now that the sun had sunk below the mountains and night crept in. "Raphael, right."

Not even bothering to answer him because he wasn't sure his embarrassment wouldn't reveal itself in the form of a squeaky voice, Donatello waved to his friend, wishing the turtle well. Stepping out into the chill night air, Donatello walked down the abandoned main road and to his church, a smile rising over his face as he felt the money in his pocket. Perhaps it wasn't saintly to cheat gamblers out of their money, but he supposed God would understand; after all, his house did need a new roof. Donatello knew for a fact it wouldn't survive another heavy winter like the one last year. It was a shame really that the stranger wasn't looking for work. He would have been pleased to give him a job, not to mention having a helping hand about the church to aid him in various jobs that needed more than one pair of hands would have been convenient.

Donatello stepped into the church and going through his nightly rituals of securing the property before he locked the doors and crossed the street to his lodgings above the stable and forge at the end of town. He prepared for bed, his belly twisting as he considered his prayers for the evening. He knelt at his bedside for a long time, wondering how he was to pray, knowing full well he was going to sin yet again by dawns light tomorrow without even attempting to stop himself. He supposed complete honesty was all God really asked of his children and he sighed, bowing his head and resting his brow atop his entwined fingers.

"God in Heaven, I thank thee for your hand in all that you bless your servant with; mainly for providing me a way with repairing your home." He paused and winced, inhaling deeply and resolving himself to his path, he continued. "I cannot in good conscience ask for your forgiveness; but perhaps I might ask for your understanding until the stranger, Raphael, leaves town. He is a very handsome man, and it has been many, many years since I have allowed myself to venture into simple indulgences that are rather pleasing to the eyes. I remain your faithful servant, and ask for your patience concerning my unnatural attraction." Donatello opened his mouth but nothing came out, his heart hammering in his chest, his lip trembling slightly before he smiled and he tilted his head, shifting on the hard wood floor against his knees. "But, Lord, you tempt me so; parading a man like that before me! Amen."

He had known since he was a teenage boy that he was attracted to the male figure. Donatello hadn't fussed over such things though, he had simply accepted it and gone about his life. He joined the priesthood out of genuine desire to serve God – though, the vow of celibacy hadn't hurt to reinforce his self-restraint either. Crawling under his rough and old blankets, Donatello hid his face behind his arm as though hoping for just a fleeting moment he would be able to block his thoughts from God and allow himself to enjoy a short lived fantasy that involved piercing golden eyes and strong fingers that tapped against his plastron insistently.

TBC...

* * *

Author's Note:

I wrote this back in 2011. I was planning on getting it written and done before I posted it; but some things happened in August of 2011...and so all of 2011 and into most of 2012...I just didn't write the rest of that year. I just wasn't capable so it was put on the side-burner...

so I was going through some of my works back when I started getting back into writing - and using turtles as that means - and decided to get this work written and finished.

Hainju has drawn some awesome Turtle Cowboys and it made me excited to get this piece done. It still needs a few more chapters written in it, but I decided that I'm far enough into it that I can start releasing it.

I'm having fun playing in this world. It just seemed like a fun crossover

but...I guess I'm just not pulling my punches with this one. I'm trying to be time accurate...at least, as close as I can get with internet research to get me by. I hope you like it...

~Melissa the Damgel


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the turtles~

_Warnings:_ this is Turtles in the Wild West. There will be religious views, there will be prejudice, there will be emotional conflicts, there will be blood, and gunfights, there will be a lot of stuff in this piece. There will be Turtlecest where that will include sexual relations between the turtles. It's heavy RaphXDon. There might be a lot of triggery things that could happen in this story, so I'm warning you now. Otherwise - I hope you enjoy because I've actually had a lot of fun writing this story.

* * *

_Confessional_

~Chapter 2~

Friday

The knock came to his door late in the morning, long after the school bell had rung and the farmers had driven in with their goods. Donatello set his coffee down, sloshing the contents over the lip of the mug. Standing with plate in hand, he scraped the last of his late breakfast into his mouth, dumped plate and fork into the wash bin, and headed for the door.

Though the glass was frosted and warped with age, he could still make out the broad shoulders and stiff stance of the man behind it. His heart jumped and he swallowed, sending a little prayer heavenward before he opened the door to a dipped black hat hiding the face of the handsome stranger from the day before.

Donatello straightened, pushed his shoulders back and he smiled a charming smile that grew into a playful thing the longer that Raphael stared blankly back with a slightly opened mouth. "'Mornin' Mr. Raphael; what brings you to my door?" he asked and crossed his arms, leaning against the doorjamb. The lack of his priestly collar at his throat and the opened revelation of his neck and collarbones was something he wasn't familiar with around others, but the bob of the stranger's throat and the way his eyes glanced at the open neckline, Donatello basked in the attention – even if Raphael's intentions were far from what he truly desired, he still saw him look.

"Ah, Padre." Raphael forced out, bowing his head to him, then he yanked his hat off. "I thought this here were Mr. Malone's place. Ya said the blacksmith was the last place on the street."

Donatello grinned, nodding with a little shrug to his left shoulder. "That I did." He offered his hand, "I'm Malone. Mr. Donatello Malone at your service." Raphael took his hand hesitantly, eyeing him suspiciously from under the brim of his hat.

"Not everyday ya meet a blacksmithin' priest."

He chuckled and stepped aside, allowing Raphael to enter his home that resemled a barn that had been modified into a living space. Donatello led Raphael through a secondary door and into his work area. Wood and charcoal dominated the aroma of the ground floor, with horse filling the rest with iron a close third. Regardless, it was home. He had grown up here, apprenticing with his father, learning from him, exploring new techniques with encouragement. Donatello never could think of a better place to have grown up. He supposed even the fresh scent of the church couldn't compete with hard work at the forge. "This way. Sorry the doors aren't open. I had a late start this morning." He turned quickly, hiding the blush coloring along his cheeks. Dreams were still a sin if one had inappropriate ones. "You mentioned your horse threw a shoe?"

"Just loose. Been cloppin' along just fine; no nail or nothin'." Raphael said, and Donatello felt his eyes on his back as he pushed open the barn doors, opening his shop up for the day. "Now wait here; why would a priest be workin' as a smithy?"

Donatello shrugged his shoulder and slipped his worn leather apron over his head, wrapping the laces around his middle twice before tying it in front. "Well, I like doing it. This shop has been in my family since my grandfather settled here, and my daddy learned every trick he could about the trade. He taught it to me and… and I suppose I love creating things out of a seemingly immovable object." He tilted his head and Raphael grunted, glancing down at the dirt floor of his workshop.

The man didn't reply and instead turned away, walking out through the barn doors to retrieve his horse and Donatello watched as he pulled his leather work gloves on. Raphael stroked his horse's neck, grumbling something to the gelding and gently led him into the barn. Donatello motioned toward the stall he should put the beast in, and Raphael did as directed, unsaddling his horse and tying the reins to the posts on either side to hold the horse steady. "Suppose that there is a good enough reason."

Validation swelled in Donatello's chest and he shrugged, turning away to gather his box of horse shoes. "Thank you." His voice dipped low, peeking at the man a third time. He shook his head whispering a prayer to God to keep his will strong. Donatello gentled his hand upon the horse, running his hands along his strong flanks and down his long legs, easing the horse's hooves off the ground one at a time, inspecting each hoof and testing each shoe before setting to work. He pulled the gelding's rear right leg between his knees, locking it in place with his own, and began prying off the loose shoe, dropping the old and bent nails into a bucket on his left.

"It'll take me a few hours. I don't suppose you'll be at the saloon waiting?" he raised his eyes for a split second, glancing at the stranger.

Raphael shook his head, his hands unbuckling the Winchester rifle strapped to the saddle and slung it over his shoulder by the leather strap. "Naw, gotta try and find this fellow I've been trackin' for the last dozen months." He pulled the saddle bags off and checked each one before he huffed at the contents. Raphael effectively ignored him then, busy at work counting bullets and filling a bandoleer for his rifle.

Donatello stared at the man for a moment, indulging himself and allowing his eyes to caress the way this fellow moved. It wasn't as if he were graceful, Raphael was just strong. Every time his hand grasped something, the way his shoulder would move and stretch the fabric of his shirt, and the way he settled back on his heels; it all had to do with power and control, and Donatello found he liked that about him.

"So, you're tracking down a man?" He asked, pulling out the last of the nails and setting the horse shoe aside, before he began to file the horse's hoof smooth. "Are you some kind of bounty hunter?"

"Could say that." Raphael inspected his six shooter, smoothing it down his arm as he checked the cartridges and the smooth glide of the barrel. He shook his head, snapping it back into place before he turned on him and Donatello straightened from the hoof, letting the horse's foot drop from between his knees.

"What else would you call it? I can't really see you as the type of man to follow another across the country to deliver some flowers."

Raphael rolled his eyes and Donatello bit his cheek to keep his smile as small as possible.

"Look, I'm searchin' for this fellow who leads a gang of thieves and rapists. He's about seven feet tall. A real giant. Big and ugly; nasty scar on his jaw; and he's got this branding on his arm of a dragon." He motioned to his right arm. "He's a real mean son-uv-a-bitch and I ain't in a real talkative mood, Padre." Raphael's golden eyes flashed with an inner fire.

Donatello swallowed and nodded his head, because it was all he could do. Those burning eyes had haunted his dreams. Yet, his heart sank and he took a step back, gripping the file in his hand tight and swallowed hard. "Uh, yeah," This wasn't right. Raphael had a point, he was a man of God, he couldn't allow him to go off and get himself killed. He glanced to the horse then back to Raphael, sweat gathering along the back of his neck. "I know that man. He rode into town about a month back. Him and his men killed old man Jenkins and took his land."

His eyes practically glowed as he stepped in close, crowding into his space and Donatello inhaled sharply, smelling only Raphael's rich musk with an underlying scent of gunpowder. "Where is he?" he growled low in his chest.

"You can't seriously want to go out there after him? He killed every last man who went out there last time!" Donatello grabbed at his arm, gripping tight at his elbow. "You can't just go charging in there half cocked. He's got over two dozen men working for him, and that man threatened to ride into town and shoot us all if we disturbed him." He couldn't breathe. He wasn't seriously going to put this town in jeopardy; was he?

"And you're just sittin' here while that bastard is out there on a murdered man's land?" he leaned in close like a dark cloud breathing down his neck.

Donatello hissed right back and pushed into his space, his nose brushing across Raphael's and he gained a step back from the stranger. "You don't understand. He killed ten good men! I had to comfort their widows and children even as I laid them to rest. Sheriff Jones was the only one who got out alive from that hellish gunfight and he still can't find a way onto that farm. That man even has guards out at night patrolling the hills with dogs sniffing for intruders. We're going to need more than you to get rid of this criminal."

"I can handle myself." Raphael jerked his arm away, yanking his elbow out of Donatello's grasp and jolting the turtle back into his body.

He stepped back and looked to the side, the file still gripped tightly in his other hand.

"I can handle myself." Raphael repeated, adjusting the rifle on his back.

"I'm not saying you can't, Mr. Raphael. Just looking at you, I knew you could. But you have to understand, I just don't want to bury another good man." He raised his eyes, catching the flicker of surprise that passed over Raphael's face before the man pushed it away and hid behind that piss and vinegar glower.

"I ain't a very decent man, Padre." He folded his arms over his chest and Donatello swallowed hard, the fluttering in his heart suffocating him. "I've done things down right awful chasin' men like him across the country." He leaned forward, golden eyes spearing through Donatello's heart. "I ain't a very nice man either. I've done things that would make yer toes curl."

Donatello shivered, unwilling to look away or pull away from this man. He was like an inferno, dragging him deeper into the blaze with every word he spoke and every action he threatened to perform. "Why risk your life?" his whisper traveled only between them and for a fleeting moment, Donatello thought he saw a flicker of confusion upon the man's face.

"Why?" He rolled the question over his tongue and Donatello felt his cheeks flush, his fingers tremble, and he watched in the haze of a lazy morning glow as Raphael licked his lips and squared his shoulders. "Because if I don't, no one will stop them."

"We called for the U.S. Marshalls. They'll stop those men-"

Raphael snorted and scowled down at him, shaking his head. "Like hell they will. Them Marshalls are all about the damn law in a lawless land. Ya have ta make a stand and let men like him know ya don't allow their likes in yer town."

"But there are other ways-"

"No, Padre! There ain't!" He seemed to grow before him, wrathful and fearsome. "Ya'll rolled over and let them settle in your town because ya'll didn't chase them off when ya had the chance!"

Donatello lifted his hand to touch Raphael's shoulder, but he jerked his hand away and shook his head, thumping his fist against his thigh. "Yes, we had a window of opportunity to chase those men off, but Raphael, you have to understand, we didn't know-"

"It don't matter!" he pushed into his space again, pushing him back against the stable wall, hovering inches from his face and Donatello stared right back, licking his lips. "You protect first, ask questions later!"

Donatello sighed and tilted his head, gazing up at Raphael, imploring him to listen. "You're right." He breathed Raphael in, watching the man's nostrils flare and he smiled. "I'm just a priest, what do I know?"

Raphael's jaw snapped shut and he took a step back, his brow twitching.

Bending over and once again lifting the horse's hoof, Donatello got back to work, measuring horseshoes till he found one that could work and took note of the areas he would need to strike to make it fit the gelding. "If we listened to your logic, we should have shot you on sight as you entered the town. And where would that have left us? One less man to help us, and one less bullet." He raised his eyes and Raphael turned away abruptly, storming out of the barn.

Donatello sighed and turned back to the horseshoe, running his finger along the hoof, measuring it a second time before he left for his forge and buried the metal into the smoldering red coals to heat. It gave him time to pray for Raphael's safe return; because he knew, deep in his gut, this was what Raphael had come here to do – to stir up trouble by confronting the leader of the bandits who lived outside of town.

"Please, Lord, keep him safe…" and Donatello fanned the coals, causing the fire within to swell and burn all the hotter.

* * *

Author's Note:

I love Priest!Donnie


	3. Chapter 3 - Part 1

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the turtles~

_Warnings:_ this is Turtles in the Wild West. There will be religious views, there will be prejudice, there will be emotional conflicts, there will be blood, and gunfights, there will be a lot of stuff in this piece. There will be Turtlecest where that will include sexual relations between the turtles. It's heavy RaphXDon. There might be a lot of triggery things that could happen in this story, so I'm warning you now. Otherwise - I hope you enjoy because I've actually had a lot of fun writing this story.

* * *

_Confessional_

~Chapter 3~

-Part 1-

Friday

Crawling up the hill, slow and easy to keep the dust from stirring and giving his position away, Raphael pulled his hat from his head and peeked over the ridge, gazing down upon the landscape below and the farm nestled comfortably within the green plains.

The farm had gone to hell; and Raphael knew a thing or two about how a farm should be run to know a well tended one from one being put out to spoil like rotten meat. He scowled at the poor conditions of the horse corral. He was amazed the beasts hadn't tried jumping the fence yet.

Guards sat at appropriate intervals, watching the hills above and the pastures behind, though none of the men carried any hint of concern regarding an ambush and half sat around an overturned barrel with a deck of cards playing poker.

Raphael skimmed over the men, counting thirty in total outdoors, before focusing upon the house. Smoke puffed from the chimney and a cook exited and reentered after dumping whatever had once been considered food out of the pot and into the pig pen. For a gang of merciless killers, they had a fairly decent set up.

Hun walked out of the house then and Raphael snarled, his teeth grinding. The man was like a moving mountain, massive in the shoulders, square jaw that could cut glass, and hands like anvils that smashed anything in their path. He barked orders, voice deep, and the men hopped to, gathering around him. He couldn't hear what they said, but he could see. Hun motioned toward the west, where the town lay. Raphael ducked his head back down and his shoulders tightened, hands reaching for his Winchester.

He wouldn't let that beast do this again. Those were good people down in that town. They didn't deserve to be massacred like sheep by wolves.

Pulling the rifle around and placing it against his shoulder, Raphael eased himself up and took aim, adjusting his sights. Red flashed in front of his eyes, the anger, pain, the loss...everything he had done to find this man; this murderer. He wouldn't let him do this again. Hun's head turned as he talked, his scarred cheek a mangled target in his crosshairs. With a slow exhale of the dry prairie air, Raphael pulled the trigger.

Blood exploded across Hun's face and the man fell backwards. He was up a second later, pushing the dead man off him who had stepped into the bullets path.

Raphael cursed and jerked on the lever of the Winchester, reloading the barrel and firing as he climbed to his feet. Arm pumping as man after man down below scrambled across the farmyard, Raphael felled one after another from his shots. Four men so far; a fifth. A bullet plowed into Raphael's leg and he dropped to his knee hissing at the searing hot lead. Hot blood gushed over his fingers and he grit his teeth. Flicking his eyes to the bandits below, Raphael forced himself to release his leg and he raised the rifle to his shoulder and exhaled slow passed the pain. He took aim at Hun's blond head and squeezed the trigger.

The hammer clicked emptiness.

Ducking below the rise of the hill, Raphael glanced down at his rented horse and instead of running for freedom he rolled to his back, pulled the barrel open and began reloading the rifle with the bullets in the bandolier across his chest. Sticky sweat trickled down his neck, his nostrils flared, and hot blood soaked his pants. The sun beat down on him, smoldering and relentless; just like the bullets flying over head, but he didn't mind it much, he had a bullet with Hun's name on it.

Locking the barrel, Raphael pumped the lever and steeled himself for the gun fight. Rolling over and peaking above the hill, he took aim and fired, picking the bandits off. Most of his shots simply injured them, leaving a man screaming and clutching an arm or leg, but now and then he lucked out and dropped men stone cold dead, sending them to hell where they belonged. The distance and the wind were his enemy today, causing his marksmanship skills to flounder in the heat of battle.

He just couldn't seem to hit Hun. The man moved like a train, barreling across the yard, six shooter out, and his bullets passed Raphael in the same crosswind.

Raphael grunted and struggled to his feet, the wound screaming in agony. He pointed the rifle at the large man and he fired.

Hun's head jerked to the side and he fell, blood oozing from his temple.

Raph held his breath, heart thundering as a bullet grazed his shoulder, he hardly felt the pain.

Then Hun groaned and moved. Raphael grabbed the hilt of his knife and took a step forward. A bullet clipped past his cheek. Dogs barked, set loose from the barn, and he cursed. This was shit is what it was. He finally found Hun and he'd have to retreat due to some lousy dogs? Snarling under his breath, he raced down the hill with a galloping limp.

The dogs bayed and crested the hill faster than their masters. Raphael swung into the saddle with a groan for his leg and immediately pulled his pistol and fired at the beasts. One yelped behind him and the mare screamed, her tail raised and eyes white as she jumped forward through the gun smoke, kicking up clumps of earth and grass.

He fought for the reins, cursing the horse and her nerves. Twisting in the saddle and leaning heavily on his good leg, Raphael aimed his six shooter and with luck on his side, he shot a man clean off his horse as a bandit took chase and topped the hill.

He didn't know how long he rode, the mare needing little encouragement, but eventually the dog howls faded, the whiz of bullets over head ended, and nothing but the thundering hooves and the rush of hot air across his face surrounded him.

Tugging back on the reins, Raphael panted, allowing the mare to circle in place. Standing in the saddle, he raked his eyes across the plains, searching for anything out of place - nothing moved except the dancing of green and yellow grass. The pain registered a moment later and he hissed, dropping back to the saddle in a rush. He tied off his leg with the bandana around his hat before he wheeled the fidgeting mare around and backtracked through the greener parts of the country, looking for scouts. He wasn't going to put that sleepy town to the gallows by being followed because of a stupid flesh wound. Nothing found and the mare huffing and pulling relentlessly on the reins, he finally relented and turned back for the town.

Shuffling into town, little puffs of dust trailing her hooves, Raphael glanced back one last time and finally allowed himself to relax. The mare's head lifted at the sight of the livery attached to the general store she called home and her feet picked up the pace, her head shaking and fighting the reins. Raphael, head held high, ignored the whispers as faces appeared in windows, men gathered along the boardwalks with hands on guns, and women scurried inside with children into shops and neighbor's homes.

His head hurt. He was thirsty. He wanted a stiff drink. He wanted to sleep. A bath. A fuck. Anything really at this point other than facing the failure of his day.

Hun was still alive.

"Raphael!"

He saw him, jogging his way with sleeves rolled to his elbows and white square at his throat and looking for all the world neat and tidy. It made him look dreadfully good. He pulled the mare to a stop and swallowed hard. He hadn't had anyone looking out for him in a long time. He'd forgotten what that felt like.

"Are you all right? What happened?" The Padre; the only brave son-uv-a-bitch to run toward him. Raphael glared at him, wiping sweat from his brow, and the priest just stared right back at him with the darkest eyes he had ever seen. He had such compassion in them that Raphael swallowed hard, unable to look away from the enigma that was this priest. What sort of priest actually took his calling seriously and cared for strangers? He had been run out of plenty of towns – all of them with the priest in the lead delivering the message. But this man…he hadn't done that. He welcomed him, offered him aid; a job.

Donatello took the mare's reins, holding her in place easily. "I'm fine." Raphael tugged on the reins but the Padre snorted and held tight, refusing to step away.

"You didn't-"

Raphael just stared back and the Padre dropped his eyes, spying his injured leg. His free hand reached for it, his brows knotted. Raphael stiffened and the priest jerked his hand back, throat bobbing before he forced a smile and shrugged, "Looks like you got yourself there a souvenir."

He scoffed. "Dick."

Donatello simply smiled back and before he knew it, a smug grin made its way onto his face.

The sheriff appeared up the street, his dark hair loose and sweat on his brow as he pushed his hat back the closer he got. The Padre's face flushed as his buddy appeared, and he looked away, stroking the mare's nose.

Sheriff Jones' expression was priceless, his lips thin as he looked from Raphael's bloody leg then to his face. Raph dared the sheriff to say something with an upturn of his lip.

"We should get the doctor for him, Casey. He's still bleeding. He may be an idiot, but he deserves a doctor nonetheless." The Padre's voice dipped.

"Father-"

"Now, Casey, you wouldn't want the idiot who is shooting those bandits on Jenkins' farm to die, would you?"

For a blistering moment, Raphael couldn't tell if he would be sleeping in a jail cell, or if the holy man was trying to save his sorry ass.

Casey's lips thinned.

"Look, Donnie, I'm fine-"

The Padre's eyes flashed like a charging bull the way the priest stared him down. "You have a bullet wound with congealed blood and a dirty bandana keeping you from bleeding out. I'm taking you to the Doctor whether you want to or not." He snapped and his cheeks flushed, the mare fidgeted, dancing in place. Not once did the priest let her gain her head.

Dropping the reins as Jones opened his mouth, Raph snorted, scoffing at the man. "Fine! Lead the way, Padre. Ain't gonna deny a priest his damn service project."

"Show some respect, boy." Jones snapped, his hand moving toward his holster.

"I ain't your boy." Raphael narrowed his eyes. The horse walked forward abruptly and he lurched in the saddle, grabbing at the horn to keep his seat. The Padre led the horse through the streets toward the outskirts of town where a white-washed home sat nestled between some birch trees and atop a small rise in the land.

A crocodile stepped out adjusting a pair of glasses upon his nose. A fancy pocket watch draped across the front of his vest, tucked away in his left hand pocket. Crisp and clean as he rolled his sleeves up, Raphael shifted a little in the saddle and swore if the Doc stuck him with a needle he would cuss out his sorry ass.

"Donatello, my friend, I see you have brought me an idiot."

Maybe he'd cuss him out on principal alone.

"Does everyone in this town think I'm an idiot?"

"Yes." Donatello smirked up at him.

Raphael puffed up, gripping the saddle horn all the tighter, opening his mouth to retort - Donatello reached back then and patted his injured leg, effectively shutting him up as he stifled a yelp.

"I have, LH, he was shot in the leg." He smiled and turned to Raphael, dark eyes boring into him. "You be polite and I may help you inside."

"I can do it myself." He growled and twisted in the saddle, dismounting from the right. The mare pawed the ground and stepped backward, her tail slapping her flanks from the unfamiliar action. Raphael grabbed at the saddle and hissed passed his teeth hopping on his good leg to keep up with the mare. Damn leg hurt like the devil in a church on Sunday!

The priest tied the horse at one of the rails in front of the doctor's home, and soon joined Raphael's side. The Padre took his arm and looped it around his shoulders, and slid his own around his waist, all warm and deceptively strong. He helped him up the stairs, moving slow and so patient. Raphael could only watch his steps, biting his tongue against the anger there as he leaned upon the Padre, their sides pressed together tightly. He wanted to hate the Padre. He didn't need his help. Yet…

The inside of the Doc's clinic was spotless. Much cleaner than others he had seen. The home was set up different, open in the middle, and like a wagon spoke, patient rooms circled the parlor. Benches sat outside bedrooms, and a round table with flowers adorned the top. It made the Doc's hospital strangely open and fresh. The Doc led them into a room and nodded at the examination table.

"Remove your clothing and take a seat, please."

Raphael leaned against the table and tried to kick his boots off, scowling as they refused to comply. The Padre stepped forward, his eyes flicking away with stiff shoulders, then he bent and pulled one boot off, then the other.

"I'm not an invalid." Raphael grunted and shifted his weight, glancing down at his wounded leg.

"Pants off." The Doctor called as he washed his hands and arms in a basin on the other side of the room.

Raphael undid his gun belt and the Padre took them, gently laying them atop a table near the door. He didn't like having his gun so far away. He loathed it in fact, the longer he stared passed the Padre, his fingers twitching.

"Let me help." Donatello whispered and Raphael jerked as he stepped forward, into his space.

Cheeks flushed scarlet, Donatello stared down, his hands reaching for the hem of his pants, each button undone quickly. The second Raph slipped his arms out from the suspenders, his pants pooled around his ankles and the Padre shied away, touching the white collar at his neck.

The Padre's hands shook as he stood there, staring at the center of his chest. Raphael caught his eyes, and for just a flicker of a second the Padre stared back in hunger. Raphael couldn't move, and the longer he stood there, with the Doc moving around behind them, the less he understood. A whispered prayer shuddered in the air and the priest took hold of his shirt buttons.

He could only think of one other time he saw a man's face as red as the priest's, and that was his pap's face after trying one of them red chili peppers from south of the border. He took the man's hand, his throat bobbing. "At least let me buy ya dinner first." Raphael tried to laugh, but his voice failed into a choked whisper. He kicked himself for it, but by the blush spreading along the Padre's face, he figured it was better that it remained between them.

The Padre stared at him, his lips parting. Raph squeezed the table behind him, his stomach flipping. The Padre looked like he saw right into him, saw the colors of his soul and still wouldn't back down because he saw something there he liked.

Blinking rapid and inhaling sharp, he came out of his daze and focused on dark eyes that had flecks of red. The priest grabbed Raph's hat from the top of his head, turned on his heel and once again stood beside the little table by the door and set it atop his gun. Shoulders stiff, his fingers traced the edge of his hat, and Raphael watched the priest as he finished undressing.

What the hell?

Raphael tossed his shirt onto a chair, pants quick to follow, and he stood there in only his underpants, blood oozing down his leg, and sweat on his brow. Raphael swallowed hard and folded his arms over his chest as tight as he could.

Like a man compelled, the Padre turned and his eyes drank him in like a man having been lost in the desert for years. Raphael's brow twitched.

"Thank you, Donatello. I can take it from here." The Doctor stepped around the table carrying a tray of instruments he just knew were going to hurt like a bitch.

The priest stepped out, jerking his eyes down and his hands darted up to touch at his collar. "Yes, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be in your way, LH. I'll just wait outside on the porch."

LH smiled, his white crocodile teeth far too close for Raphael's tastes.

But as the Padre left, his cheeks still blushing, his fingers unable to leave his collar, he sent him one last look from the doorway before he moved down the hall and the front door clicked shut a moment later. Raphael frowned and slid himself up onto the table with the Doc's aid and laid down on it, his shot leg presented to the Doc. Raphael swallowed hard against the pain.

He didn't understand the Padre. He just didn't understand why he focused on him like he did. He was a lost cause, was the Padre starting to realize that? The way his eyes could reach into his soul and read him seemed to suggest just that. He wasn't worth the effort; but he supposed he had liked feeling like he was for a while.._._

"Hold still. This is going to hurt."

The Doc dug his fingers into his wound and Raphael screamed.

* * *

Author's Note:

so I finally got this patched back up to a satisfactory condition. This chapter I had done a lot of work on right before the great Demise of 2013 of which much writing was deleted as per my stupid mistake. but... I'm satisfied. So here it is. Part 2 was originally its own chapter...but as I was reading it, i realized that I did need to split them up, but it needed to be in the same chapter as this portion. so here is the first half. I hope you liked.

psst - I love reviews o_o

~Melissa the Damgel


	4. Chapter 3 - Part 2

_Disclaimer: _I don't own the turtles~

_Warnings:_ this is Turtles in the Wild West. There will be religious views, there will be prejudice, there will be emotional conflicts, there will be blood, and gunfights, there will be a lot of stuff in this piece. There will be Turtlecest where that will include sexual relations between the turtles. It's heavy RaphXDon. There might be a lot of triggery things that could happen in this story, so I'm warning you now. Otherwise - I hope you enjoy because I've actually had a lot of fun writing this story.

* * *

_Confessional_

~Chapter 3~

-Part 2-

Friday

"Don, I'm tellin' ya, he ain't nothing but trouble and you can't honestly be sayin' you want to keep that wolf around." Casey hissed, pointing at the Doc's door.

Donatello sat on the porch in one of those rocking chairs LH had put out there for friends and family. Hands clasped tight upon his knees, knuckles white the longer he sat perfectly still, lost in his own thoughts like a bird in the clouds. His focus wasn't on his friend and helping him decide what was best for the town; it worried him that his sinful desires were winning.

Swallowing hard, Donatello lifted his head and stared directly at his friend with dust kicking around him from the puffs of evening wind as he blocked the sun from his eyes. "It's already in motion, Casey. Its better we keep a man around who's willing to do what we cannot against those men out on Jenkin's farm, than to lose a gun to our unfounded fears."

Tipping his hat back and wiping his brow, Casey shook his head, his free hand resting atop his six shooter. "I don't like this, Don." He hissed, glaring at the door, and no doubt imagining it was Raphael standing there. "He's no good. Ya said so yourself; he's a fox in a henhouse. He's done going ta destroy us."

"Not if we destroy ourselves first." Donatello said then snapped his mouth shut and bowed his head, his hands gripping all the tighter. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." He swallowed past the lie. "Besides, I believe you said that." The sun beat down on him, a ball of fire at the end of town, eating at him as if promising his own damnation if he continued on this path.

No. He wouldn't do this. Inhaling slow and deep, Donatello took a moment, pushing Raphael out of his mind and repeating a prayer. It soothed him, calmed him from the overwhelming desire to betray his vows. Raphael was fine. He would be gone soon enough anyhow and leave town forever. The Marshalls would be here any day now to clean up his mess. Raph was a stranger, a desperado wandering the plains. That wasn't how Donatello wished to live. He wouldn't give up his life just because his physical body was at odds with his immortal soul.

"Donatello, what's wrong? Did that fellow say somethin' to ya?" Casey stepped forward, resting a foot upon the first step.

Donatello shook his head, smiling to his friend. "I'm sorry. I think I'm just worried is all. I knew what he planned to do since he brought his horse to me this morning. I should have come to you, but I thought after he saw the number of men that giant of a mudsill had under his command, Raphael would change his mind and come back without having..." he swallowed, "gotten hurt." His fingers tightened around each other.

Casey sighed and bowed his head, hands on his hips. "I got ta say, I admire him. Makes me wish I had gone with him and taken down some of those murderin' sons-uv-bitches. Pardon the language, Father."

"I would have protested if you had gone." Don chuckled, forcing his hands apart and he wiggled his fingers, compelling some of the tension out. He couldn't act like this. He needed to focus. "Who would I talk too if you died?"

"Michelangelo?" Casey offered, a smile rolling over his angular face.

He snorted at that, waving his hand. "As much as I love Michelangelo, he doesn't have enough cents in his head to make a dollar. I would find myself running with the Indians before I had a sensible conversation with that one."

The two chuckled and the unease of the situation drained slowly from their shoulders.

Moving up the creaky steps, he took a seat beside him in one of the many rocking chairs. Casey thumped his foot up on the railing of the porch and stared out at their little town, the sun setting on the horizon behind the mountains. "We are goin' ta need to get ready tomorrow. I don't see that kind of man sittin' still after an ambush like this."

"I agree." Donatello bobbed his head, feeling far too warm in his priest outfit. "We should let the townsfolk have one more good night's rest. We can go and visit them tomorrow, let them know what happened and prepare them for the possibility of retaliation."

"Sounds fair enough."

Donatello smiled with the sun warm on his face. "I'll spend a little extra time in the church tonight, and I'll pray for us all. I know Raphael's arrival has stirred up trouble we don't wish to see, but I can't help but feel that his arrival is also what will be our salvation." Casey's face hardened, his mouth a severe line cutting across his face. Donatello looked away, wiping his palms against the knees of his pants. He could see him in his head, looking inviting instead of repulsed like he knew deep down he would be if he were to know his lusts. "It's not my place to question God and his plans for us." He smiled then, silently asking for strength. "I'm honestly only a vessel by which I remind us that God is close to us all if we so choose to reach out and accept his Grace. This is my reminder to you, Casey, that even Jesus loved those who hated him. He befriended those he met. Should we not do the same?"

Casey bowed his head and rubbed his face, his calloused palms hissing against his stubble. "You're right. I don't got to carry this load alone." Donatello patted his shoulder before Casey stood and moved down the steps. "I'll take the horse back to Jed, you just make certain Raphael gets back ta his room fine enough."

"Of course." Donatello leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, shoulders relaxed. "And you need to go pay your lovely fiancée a visit."

Casey's face turned red and he huffed, rubbing at his neck and shuffling in the dirt before he bolted for the mare and fumbled with her reins. "She's not my fiancée."

"Yet."

With a stumble and nervous half-wave, Casey tugged the mare after him and back to the general store.

Donatello chuckled and leaned back in his chair, looping his elbow over the back of his seat.

It was at least a plan. Not a very promising one, but something they at least felt like they could control. Prepare the town for the worst and hope for the Marshalls to arrive soon.

* * *

LH wiped his hands clean, glancing over his shoulder only once at the unconscious patient upon his table. Donatello leaned in the doorway, his arms folded along his belly with a smile on his face. LH didn't believe that smile for one second.

"He'll need plenty of rest. His leg should heal just fine, though he'll need to stay off it for at least a month. Though, I know better than to assume he'll do it. Keep him off it for a week at least." He didn't believe for one second a man like that would listen at all. He wouldn't be surprised if he was up and walking around town tomorrow morning. LH tossed the bloody rag into the wash basin, the medical tools rattled, and he snorted against the coppery scent in the air. He removed his apron with the bloodstains smeared across the front gingerly then adjusted his glasses before he settled a look upon his friend. "He needs to give his leg time to actually heal."

"I'll take him on as my charge, LH. Do not worry."

"I'm not worried about him. I could care less." LH hung the apron on a peg and approached his friend, his sleeves still rolled up and even after surgery, he remained blissfully spotless. LH was a master at his profession and he prided himself on that. "I'm worried about you, Donatello." He folded his arms over his chest and gazed down the length of his nose at his friend and got a raised brow in return.

They stared at one another, a fly circling past Donatello's head without so much as a swat as it curled its way into the room and alighted upon the rim of the wash basin. Donatello shook his head and looked away, his shoulders stiffening. LH snorted and took a seat on the bench he had nestled near the door beside a coat rack. "My friend, I respect you greatly, and my silence will never be broken. But you must listen to me when I tell you to keep your distance from this one. He is no good like an apple rotten from the middle outward."

Donatello grew smaller where he stood and LH saw the flicker in his smile, but just like an actor upon the New York stages, he caught his stumble and continued his lie with precision and ease. "I don't suppose you would be pleased to have Mikey caring for him? I could turn his care over for the saloon-"

LH rubbed his brow, "No, Michelangelo would possibly kill the poor man by doting all over him. I know the man will at least recover in your capable hands." His teeth clicked at the end of his snout and he stared at the floor, his tail twitching. "I am simply….giving my friend advice. If he wishes to listen, that is his choice. I just feel this man could possibly be bringing thoughts into his head that are dangerous for his well being." He tried to catch Donatello's eye, but the priest stared at the floorboards, his throat bobbing under his collar. He looked like how he did, that night so long ago, a mere boy on the cusp of manhood, asking him questions that he knew all too well were meant to answer his own inner thoughts. He looked so fragile then; he looked broken now.

Donatello scuffed his foot across the floor, his fingers digging into his arms. He finally nodded and LH returned the gesture, their eyes meeting for a flicker of a heartbeat before LH stood, slow and weary and waved him inside. "Thank you for the advice, LH." He whispered and LH frowned. How completely taken was he over this man? "And thank you for caring for him. I'll escort him back to the saloon now."

"I can walk jus' fine." Raphael slurred and LH folded his arms, watching the man struggle to sit up, his skin pale compared to the day he arrived, and his eyes drooped. Even his breath seemed so tired and weak.

"It would be best to keep weight off that leg." LH moved forward and without preamble, placed a hand on his chest and shoved him back down. The man groaned, eyes squeezed shut.

"LH-"

"Donatello." LH turned back to him and his hands curled into fists. He was a patient man, and this community had even helped him gain control, slowing his temper to a slow simmer; but a temper he had and he was at his wits end. His friend walked a razor's edge to destruction and he wouldn't stand by and watch him fall without at least trying to stop him.

Donatello smiled and it made LH pause because he saw it, there in his eyes. Resignation. "It's all right." He whispered and stepped forward, taking Raphael's arm and helped the stubborn man sit up. He helped him with his pants and slid one of the suspenders over his shoulder. He gathered up his belongings, slinging his shirt and gun belt over his shoulder and plopped Raphael's hat atop his head, and without another word, they shuffled from the warm surgery room, the larger turtle leaning heavily upon the priest.

He looked like a porcelain doll lying shattered on the ground.

LH watched them both go, struggling down the five steps of his porch and across the dusty lot toward the saloon. His friend molded himself to Raphael and tried to take as much of the burden as possible. He fit against him, his arms curled about him, his steps slow and strong, moving at the larger man's pace. His stomach turned and LH marched back into his clinic, filling a fresh basin with clean water and scrubbed at the bloodstains on the surgery table.

* * *

It took nearly half an hour to finally get Raphael up the stairs, not because his leg gave out on him or because he refused Donatello's help, but because he argued with Michelangelo for twenty of those minutes about not needing his help specifically.

Don pushed Raphael's door open and refused to allow him to pull away until he sat upon the edge of his bed. Amber eyes glared at him as he stepped away and he glared right back, arms crossing over his chest. "It wasn't right of you to do that. Going off and confronting that gang."

"It's none of your business, Padre."

"I have a name." he snapped lips pursed and hands balling into fists. He took a slow breath and stared out the window of the second floor at the crimson and pumpkin stained sky. "What I meant, Raphael, was that by confronting them and not finishing your business, you made it our business. Those boys are going to come for us because you drew their attention our way."

"Don't get yer panties in a bunch, Donnie." Raphael grunted and shifted on the bed, his face twisting with discomfort.

Donatello bit the inside of his cheek and peeked out of the corner of his eye at him. Raphael wiggled upon the bed removing one boot in the process. The second boot not being so willing as his injury stifled his movements. Rubbing his elbow and turning back to face him, Donatello caught his eyes and his face began to heat up.

The man's brows twitched and his mouth thinned to a harsh line across his face that proved neither welcoming nor dismissive. Raphael nodded and looked away, leaning back on his hands with a grunt and grumble. Donatello dropped to a knee, easing Raph's last boot off. The room was warm and heady, and it smelled like a male. The window did little to light the room and dust motes floated in the air lazily, twisting and dipping then traveling back up toward the ceiling. Donnie folded Raphael's shirt he had carried from the Doc's, placed it on the chair with his belt and gun atop that, and set his boots neatly beside the chair. His hat perched on a peg by the door.

When he turned back around, he encountered golden eyes that bore into him, and Raphael leaned forward with an elbow atop his good knee. He touched the square of white at his throat and smiled to Raphael, his other hand pressing to his belly hoping to calm it and persuade the butterflies to settle. "Doctor LH told me you need to rest for a week. I offered my services-"

"Padre, what the hell do ya want from me?"

Donatello's smile fell and his blood went cold like the unexpected attack of a bee sting. He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. A prayer sprang to mind and he sucked in a breath of air. "I don't expect anything from you. I am simply here to look after the Lord's flock – even those who stray and wander in from the wilds."

Raphael snorted and his head bowing, staring at the floor, his shoulders bobbing as if he were laughing.

Donatello frowned, his fingers easing their grip. "You're a good man, I want to help you despite what you think-"

With an abrupt motion, he stood, hissing and hopping on his good leg as he snatched Donatello's arm and he tugged him close, his nose brushing across his. Don's heart raced against his ribs. "I ain't a good man, Donnie. Stop actin' like I am."

"No one is forever lost." Donatello whispered, the hand against his belly pressed in harder, his fingers gripping at his shirt. "Even the prodigal son – after doing so much wicked – was welcomed back home with open arms."

"Are ya goin' ta save me, Padre? Are ya goin' ta be the one to save my soul and cleanse me of my sins? I've killed men. Pretty sure that there ain't allowed in the Book."

"It's not for me to judge." Donnie whispered and Raphael's nostrils flared, his eyes consuming him. This stranger scared him and yet excited him. He asked the questions the good God-fearing townsfolk didn't. He looked him in the eye and wanted answers; and Donatello reveled in it as well as drowned in the fact he was answering questions he himself feared to address if he were to ever...

"I ain't a good man." Raphael's voice dipped.

"I'm not either."

"Better than me."

"No, I think we're about equal." He smiled then, fake and weak and he gripped all the tighter at his shirt.

Nose brushing against his, his breath tickling his lips, the strength in his hand upon his arm - he swallowed hard, reveling in it. But, this wasn't right. He turned his face away and sipped at the air. "It's not my job to place judgment. I am a voice and a guide, but I am not judge and jury. The Bible does say, 'Thou shalt not kill.' Yet, what if it is God's plan that you end the reign of an evil man? Was it not David's destiny to put a stop to Goliath? Why should it not be your destiny to stop that man?"

"You gonna tell me, Padre, that just because I catch a few bad men, that I ain't accountable for my actions?"

Donatello smiled and looked back to him, wishing he could reach forward and wipe that crease in the center of his brow away, "No," and with a quiver, his heart rapping, he did reach for him, his fingers brushing across Raphael's waist. "and yes."

Raphael's brows knotted, his grip on his elbow tightened, searching him as if they stood here, dancing with the devil.

"And it's Donnie."

With a hiss Raphael pulled back, his shoulders heaving, his face twisting in confusion – then he placed his weight upon his leg and he hissed, reaching for the wound.

He didn't ask nor coddle him. Donatello took his arm and helped Raphael back toward the bed. He drew the covers back, smoothing the rough sheets and he fluffed the pillow, patting it, ordering him to lie down. Raphael obeyed, watching him the entire time. Don simply smiled, whispering a prayer in his heart. He tucked him in, pulling the blankets up to Raphael's chin, a glass of water on the bedside table, and a lingering hand upon his shoulder. "I'll tell Michelangelo to bring you up some food. He'll worry until he knows you're settled."

"He's a busy-body is what he is." He didn't have the same fire in his voice and he stared past him at the ceiling.

"Perhaps, but he cares about everyone, no matter how long he has known them." Donatello patted his shoulder, offering him a smile. "Do rest, I would very much like to see you recover quickly." He turned, the floorboards creaking with age, and he moved for the door, his hand reaching for the doorknob.

"I ain't gonna promise you nothin'; and I ain't gonna do your confessional."

Donatello paused, his stomach flipping. He wanted to stay, talk. But he couldn't. He shouldn't. On so many levels he needed to ignore his comment and walk out that door. He brushed his thumb over the doorknob, smoothing the front of his shirt down. Looking back at this man, one suspender around his waist, the other cutting a striking red line along his exposed plastron and showcasing his broad shoulders, he wondered how life would have been if he had just remained a blacksmith and not taken on the responsibility of becoming a Man of the Cloth.

No. He couldn't think this way. It was better this way.

"Even if you don't, I hope that won't stop you from attending my sermon. I would very much like to see your face there on Sunday." He smiled.

Raphael looked away, his mouth thin and tight.

He closed the door behind him and shrank in on himself as his hands shook. He opened his mouth, trying to just breathe past the stifled pressure upon his chest.

Lust and greed, even envy. What would it be like to not care? It seemed so easy. It seemed so free and fulfilling. What if he gave it all up? Left his home, his town, everything he loved and left for one of the big cities. He had heard the stories, of men like him, of establishments where his kind could go and not be hunted down, beaten, or worse. He could indulge and allow his curiosity to experience the darker decadences he desired.

He forced himself to move, his steps heavy as he fled from Raphael's room and down the hallway. He didn't make it too far before he fell against the wall, slumped against it. He hid his face away and breathed deep and fast.

Yet, it was just that – too easy. No matter how easy or delicious it seemed, no matter where he went, he wouldn't truly be free, for that kind of freedom carried its own cost. Easy yes, but at the end of his days, would he look back and see the quality of life he wanted? Would he see selfish desires or selfless service? Would he look back and see fanciful wanderings of carefree days that led to nothing significant? Or would he look back on his life and know that he tried to be honest to himself. He tried so hard to uphold his values and beliefs, he didn't want to lie to himself and cheapen his life by pretending to not care. He was worth more than that.

He wanted it all in some corner of his mind. He wanted to walk away, leave his collar, his vows, and discover this other side to himself and yet...he knew himself. He didn't lock that side of himself away in a dark corner to never acknowledge. By facing it, he understood himself. By looking at himself as a whole, he knew he could never survive that life. He didn't desire the abandonment of self for the sake of experimentation. He wanted something deeper. Meaningful.

Donatello's face twisted up and he pressed his palm to his lips, holding back anything that could slip past him. He shook his head, for he knew he would never have that. He would never share his life with another…he knew Raphael wouldn't.

A door across the hall clicked as someone twisted the knob and Donatello jerked away from the wall and marched down the hall, swallowing the lump in his throat.

* * *

Author's Note:

I know~ I feel like by the time I got around to this part I was beating a dead horse. But I wanted to really feel out Donatello's feelings... his views and his conflict. This chapter I think was more for me as a writer to understand the character than was really needed for the reader... but having said that, i feel like I would lose something if I didn't include this part. Thus... splitting it up yet making it part of the same chapter as the last. I hope it wasn't too slow... i hope you enjoyed

~Melissa the Damgel


End file.
